


Co-Captains' Redemption

by Ace_of_Cups (Ace_Of_Cups)



Series: The Strange, Smutty Traditions of SMH [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Play, Blowjobs, Bukkake, Cum Play, Edging, Exhibitionism, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Group Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Mild humiliation kink, Multi, Nipple Play, PWP, Punishment, Shameless Smut, Technically Dub-Con, Try not to cum challenge, Voyeurism, group masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ace_Of_Cups/pseuds/Ace_of_Cups
Summary: Ransom and Holster's connection is legendary, and it's made them excellent captains for Samwell Men's Hockey. On a night when they are disastrously un-synced, they lead their team into a stunning defeat. And per the secret traditions of SMH, they must endure the smutty challenge set by the coaches to prove themselves once more and spare the team as much misery in practice as possible.“Gentlemen, you know how this works. You know that we are going to put you through hell after a…” he scowled, “game like that. You boys played like shit, true, actual donkey shit. It’s fair to say that your captains let you down tonight in a serious way.”Nearly everyone tried to glance discreetly at their captains to see how they were handling this comment, but there’s nothing discrete about close to twenty men looking even momentarily in your direction.
Relationships: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Holsom - Relationship, Implied Derek "Nursey" Nurse/Christopher "Chowder" Chow/William "Dex" Poindexter, Implied Ollie O'Meara/Pacer Wicks, Implied Polyfrogs, or more like implied pre-polyfrogs
Series: The Strange, Smutty Traditions of SMH [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136009
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Co-Captains' Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> My absurd smutty nonsense continues. This is technically a sequel to [A Captain's Atonement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946454), but it's likely not necessary to have read that one first to understand this, they're not particularly exposition heavy stories in the first place, lmao.

It was already an unconventional year. For the first time in Samwell Men’s Hockey history they were led by a co-captain team, after votes split perfectly down the middle and even the coaches knew that there would be something truly heretical about trying to separate Ransom and Holster. So, co-captains it was, and by and large it proved to be an excellent choice. The D-man team was the emotional ballast of SMH during Jack’s years of effective but emotionally intense leadership, and they earned the respect of their teammates easily. Their compatibility as co-captains had never been in question given their obvious bond since practically their very first practice together. 

Very occasionally, however, they clashed. It was never quite clear why (the prevailing theory was mostly just mangled astrology, and no one could recall exactly who proposed it, though it was most likely Nursey), but it happened, and when it did the whole team felt the ripples. The clashes weren’t so much arguments as they were seemingly glitches in whatever psychic/emotional syncing the pair had going for them, weird days when they finished each other’s sentences incorrectly or passed the puck to empty space expecting the other to be there. The team was typically quite capable of picking up the slack and compensating on those days, but sometimes this happened on a game day, and very rarely it happened on a game day against a stronger team, the kind of team they’d normally need to work their asses off to beat, and that was when these clashes were truly disastrous.

Today had been that day. Twice, Holster had shot a desperate pass expecting Ransom to have anticipated it, straight into the clutch of the enemy who managed to convert it into a point each time. What morale the team had cobbled together to face the game was scattered over the rink like so many ice shavings in the first period and never recovered. The game ended in a miserable loss.

So it came as no surprise to the team that Hall and Murray met them with that specific, rage-filled silence that presaged only one thing. Murray already had the duffel bag by his feet as the team came shuffling into the locker room, and benches had been arranged in a horseshoe around the cleared-out middle of the room. Clean towels were spread over the floor in the center. Looks of some confusion flitted around the room, though the team’s mood was too somber and defeated overall for it to cause much of a stir.

“Go ahead and get undressed, team,” Coach Hall instructed, his tone sharper than the blades on their skates.

Ransom and Holster exchanged a brief look as they began stripping off jerseys, pads, underwear, a mixture of apprehension, shame, maybe a glimmer of excitement. The team followed their lead, and soon the room was full of naked men making no pretenses at modesty. Tango and Whiskey were the most visibly uncomfortable, though they’d had the benefit of some foreknowledge after the Frogs decided they didn’t want any new generations to experience the tradition without any preparation, as they had.

“Gentlemen, you know how this works. You know that we are going to put you through hell after a…” he scowled, “game like that. You boys played like shit, true, actual donkey shit. It’s fair to say that your captains let you down tonight in a serious way.”

Nearly everyone tried to glance discreetly at their captains to see how they were handling this comment, but there’s nothing discrete about close to twenty men looking even momentarily in your direction. Holster’s face was a blushing, shameful red and he clenched his fists at his side, the glimmer of a tear in the corner of his eyes. Ransom’s head was hung and he seemed to be focusing on breathing deeply and steadily. The coaches’ glares were relentless, while the rest of the team looked away as quickly as they had glanced, sad and uncomfortable seeing their captains shamed like this, even if they had played like shit and let it affect their leadership.

Holster cleared his throat. “Well, can’t say I haven’t been curious about this. Where’s the chair?”

Coach Hall ignored the question. “Everyone but the captains, on the benches. Now!”

The team hustled to find seats, some laying towels on the cold metal before sitting on it with bare asses, others wincing in shock at the cold metal. (”Anyone else’s balls get, like, real tight?” Nursey stage-whispered to the room. Chowder nodded, wincing and shifting on his seat.) The coaches remained silent and imperious throughout.

Finally, Hall turned to Ransom and Holster. “Get on the towels.”

Looking openly confused, the two captains complied, standing awkwardly on the towels in the center of the room. The team watched in silence, everyone colluding in ignoring the few anticipatory boners showing up around the benches. This was the unspoken agreement of this tradition, the condition which revealed the rationale underneath the theatrics: it was punishment and pleasure, humiliation and comfort, exhibition and bonding. The team and their captains felt all of the anger and regret and humiliation of their game still, but it was given a new anchor, grafted onto a new trunk. 

Coach Hall spoke. “Things have to be different since there’s two of you and only one chair. You’re gonna lie down and blow each other.” Shock whispered through the room. “Similar rules: for every minute you last, one minute off the drill time, five minutes is the minimum. Less than that, five minutes added to the drill time. But, you have to finish at the same time. If one of you finishes before the other, that will be the time taken off for the team, and every single one of your teammates will cum on you.” 

At this, Coach Murray retrieved a couple of bottles of lube from the duffel and began passing them around the benches. The players coated their dicks and hands quickly, some still looking shocked and confused, some, like Ollie and Nursey, looking unashamedly aroused. Nursey glanced over at Dex and Chowder on either side of him, both blushing furiously, though Chowder seemed to blush with enthusiasm while Dex’s blush carried more of a desperate “just get through it” energy. 

—“Look at us, bonding,” Nursey said, grinning.  
“I am not doing this with you right now, Nurse,” Dex gritted through his teeth.  
“You kind of are doing this with me, though,” Nursey teased. “It’s chill.”  
“Wow! I think this is the most men I’ve ever masturbated with!” Chowder interrupted.  
Dex leaned forward to stare at Chowder past Nursey, who stared alongside him.   
“Chowder, how many men have you masturbated with before?” Dex asked.  
Chowder had the same slightly dreamy, slightly confused, intensely concentrated expression he wore during class or a lecture from Bitty. “Oh, well just one or two.”  
“Chill,” Nursey said and offered a fist-bump.   
Dex had a strange, constipated sort of look on his face, which the other two knew meant he was feeling something that they’d have to force out of him later, but not now.— 

In the center of the room, Holster and Ransom were positioning themselves on the towels, lying on their sides face-to-crotch, both of them already hard. Anyone paying attention could see that this was in no way an unfamiliar position for either of them, but that would surprise very few of the men (Tango excepted, of course). They exchanged apprehensive glances, and Ransom attempted to discretely pat Holster’s thigh and whisper, “You got this, bro, just breathe through it and focus on blowing my mind and we can cum together.”

Hall stood over them, stern. “Murray and I will be watching closely. If either of you slows down or attempts to give each other a break, we’ll start the timer over.”

Ransom and Holster both snapped their gazes up to Hall, flashes of shock and intimidation spiked with the characteristic glints of competitive fire that had been smothered by the night’s game. They looked back at each other and grinned, wry and determined and resigned. 

The coaches looked up at the team surrounding the center. “Now boys, you’ve got to stick to the parameters this time, too. This is a team effort. None of you can finish before we give you the go-ahead. You can do whatever you need to do, but if any of you cums before we give the go-ahead that’s another five minutes added. If you cum somewhere other than we tell you to, five minutes. If you can’t finish within a minute of us giving the go-ahead, you guessed it, another five minutes.”

The room was slowly filling with the competitive spirit that any challenge drew out of them, but those who bothered to enumerate all of the different ways they might incur time penalties felt some apprehension. They might walk out of this room with their drill times more than doubled. 

“These are the highest stakes orgasms we’ve ever had,” Holster said in his captain’s voice, directing it to the team in that subtly teasing but also entirely serious way only he could pull off. “We’re not gonna let you down, guys.”

Ollie and Wicks both let out excited ‘woop’s and fist-bumped each other. Chuckles rippled around at their antics. Coach Hall barked, “Time starts now.”

Both of the captain’s were close to fully hard already. Ransom shifted forward and reached over Holster’s hip to grab his ass firmly, bracing himself against the ground with his other elbow beneath him, propped so that he could grab Holster’s dick and guide it into his mouth. The familiar, thick hardness met his tongue and he instinctively swirled his tongue around the head before sliding his mouth over the first third and closing his lips around the soft skin. He momentarily stuttered in his movements as Holster’s mouth closed around his dick.

Coach Hall’s imposing presence powered him through the urge to stop and luxuriate in Holster’s frankly unfair blowjob skills. Ransom teased Holster often, in the privacy of their shared bedroom, that he was only so good at sucking dick because he already had such a big fucking mouth. Holster nearly always insisted on sucking Ransom’s soul out through his dick each time he was teased to prove that it was in fact a skill set and not just a fluke of physiology, so Ransom was pretty liberal with his teasing. Compared to those moments, Holster was clearly keeping it pretty tame, his mind set on reaching the five minute goal at the very least. This realization was a helpful reminder, as Ransom felt his desire to show off and out-do Holster rising, with his throat relaxing to fit more and more of Holster’s cock into his mouth.

Around them, most of the team had begun sliding their hands along their dicks. Tango pumped his hand at a shocking rate, and Whiskey whispered to him, “Tango. Slow down. What are you doing?”

“I didn’t really understand the instructions,” Tango whispered, hand still pumping, face showing the same confused expression he seemed to be wearing perpetually.

“We can’t cum until the coaches tell us to, slow down, dude.” Whiskey was gripping his dick with just his fingertips and gently running them up and down its length.

Tango replied, “Ooohhh, okay, got it. Thanks.” He looked down at Whiskey’s lap unashamedly and copied his grip. “Oh, yeah, this is better, cool idea.”

Across the room, Bitty had one hand pinching at his nipple while the other hand alternated between gently massaging and pulling his balls and tight, squeezing strokes of his cock. He watched Ransom and Holster on the ground before him with undisguised appreciation, the fear and restraint that he’d experienced the year before long gone. 

Those first moments were quiet, the room filled only with the slick sound of lubed fists and the occasional, plopping slurps of sound from the captains on the floor. The coaches watched closely, Hall waiting for any sign of the captains relenting in their blowjobs, Murray scanning the benches for any especially excitable man who might push himself too far too fast. 

On the floor, Holster tried to focus on breathing, slow and deep, through his nostrils while he vigorously bobbed his head at the awkward angle demanded by this position. Uncharacteristic nervous energy buzzed through his body as Ransom’s mouth and tongue and hands made delicious contact with his dick and balls. He had no problem putting on a show for everyone, even naked, but the time requirements worried him. Holster was someone who threw himself fully into every sensation, every emotion, every moment, and he didn’t know how to hold back, ever, which was one of the things that everyone loved about him. Only Ransom knew, however, that this also meant that he required very sensitive and gentle sexual stimulation if he wanted to postpone his orgasm much, and while he had long ago gotten past any shame he might have felt about not being the longest-lasting lover, it had never been under quite these conditions. He could feel the intoxicating throbbing pressure building in his loins and did his best to focus again just on the sensations before him, the specific curve of Ransom’s dick, the familiar scent of Ransom’s sweaty body, the shifting firmness of his muscles as he twitched his cock into Holster’s mouth.

Ransom tried to be as gentle on Holster as he could without incurring one of the many possible penalties. He kept his lips as loose as he could, ran his tongue only lightly up the length of Holster’s shaft, tried his best to avoid the sensitive tip. With some uncertainty, Ransom discretely gripped around the base of Holster’s dick and squeezed tight, hoping to slow things down for him that way. Holster sighed with relief and frustration simultaneously, the barest hint of a whine shading the edges of his breath as it escaped around Ransom’s hardness. 

Noises were steadily increasing throughout the room. Some time had passed already and even those who started off slowly were now fighting the need building up inside of them, the pressure demanding that they speed up, squeeze harder. The benches creaked under muscular bodies beginning to squirm and thrust and squeeze. Chowder gasped a laugh beside Bitty and threw both hands up in the air. “Oh, that was a close one! Sorry guys!”

“Chowder, please tell me you didn’t nut,” Dex’s strained voice begged.

Chowder tugged on his balls, which had tightened up in anticipation of his relief, with one hand and squeezing around the base of his dick with the other. Bitty glanced over and saw the pre-cum nearly streaming from the tip of his swollen, darkened dick, the way it was bouncing with the strength of his pulse. 

“Now, sweetie, please be careful,” Bitty said, “We can’t have our captains’ hard work down there be for nothing.”

Chowder continued squeezing and said with a breathy laugh, “I promise, Bitty!”

The chilly air smelled of sweat and that vague musky hint of sex. The first true moans began to fill the air as man after man on the benches approached orgasm and had to back off, some desperately clutching their cocks, others catching it sooner and whimpering as they let go to play with their nipples or clutch the muscular thigh or shoulder of the man next to them. In the center, Holster whined pathetically around Ransom’s cock, the bobbing of his head stuttering as he divided his attention between fighting off his climax and keeping his pace on Ransom. His long fingers dug painfully into the flesh of Ransom’s thigh where Holster gripped him in desperation. It was clear: the only solution to his predicament was to step it up on Ransom and begin truly blowing him to try and pull him to the finish line in time to join Holster.

Holster used the hand grasping Ransom’s hip to leverage himself up, freeing his other arm from bracing him against the ground. He awkwardly slid two fingers into his mouth alongside Ransom’s dick, the angle almost painful. But he was able to coat them in his saliva and reached between Ransom’s quivering thighs. He nearly regretted his choice, however, as Ransom gasped a sharp inhale and then ground out the longest moan Holster had heard from him in a long time, the vibrations nearly punching Holster right over the edge. He wasn’t going to last much longer, he knew, even with Ransom gripping the base of his cock tightly.

With gentle but insistent pressure, Holster pushed first one, then another, finger through the tight heat of Ransom’s ass. Ransom clenched around his fingers, his hips trembled and thrust into Holster’s now-merciless mouth. He was fully whining around Holster’s cock now, and Holster’s lower voice joined in. Holster crooked his fingers—right on target, he guessed, based on Ransom’s reaction. He was relentless, rubbing and pressing while pushing his mouth all the way to the root of Ransom’s dick, swallowing around the thick head repeatedly. 

And then it was over. Holster cried out, a raw cry, every muscle in his body standing out as he fought even then to hold it in. His fingers crooked viciously where they were rubbing against Ransom’s prostate, and Ransom thrust into Holster’s open mouth and began cumming. Holster’s dick fell out of Ransom’s mouth as Ransom released his grip, thick spurts of semen streaking across Ransom’s cheek, his neck, the floor behind him. He nearly choked on Ransom’s jizz as it filled his mouth, but managed, after some careful breathing, to swallow it down. 

The room fell quiet. Their teammates, all in various stages of orgasm denial, watched the coaches intently to get the go-ahead to finish. No one but the coaches knew how long their captains had lasted and none cared in that moment. Hall and Murray consulted with each other quietly, across the room, and then rejoined.

“Well, captains, you made it to six minutes, three seconds, and you finished together. You decided to show up for your team, it seems.” 

Ransom and Holster had fallen onto their backs and listened with obvious relief. Their chests heaved as they caught their breath, and their spit-and-cum-slicked dicks were slowly softening between their legs. 

Hall wasn’t finished. “But the fact of the matter is you two let your team down in a massive way tonight. So you’re going to share in this last bit, try to make it up to them.” He glanced around the room, ignoring the pained looks darkening the captains’ blissed out expressions on the floor before him. “The rest of you actually followed orders, acted like a team! Maybe next time you can do that on the ice. Everyone stand up, surround the captains. You can finish now.”

The team had the decency to look at least somewhat chagrined for their captains’ impending stickiness, but they were most of them too on edge to care. Ransom and Holster briefly looked alarmed, but both closed their eyes and lay back as their team surrounded them, some going to their knees, the rest standing. Ransom laughed to himself as he realized that the sound of nearly twenty men jerking off and nutting on him was about to be indelibly burned into his memory; meanwhile, Holster’s sappier mind was feeling a dopey pleasure that he and Ransom were experiencing this together (Ransom would punch him in the shoulder later when he admitted this). 

And then it was happening and it was overwhelming. And warm. Sounds ranging from quiet gasps to full-throated moans, to Nursey’s frankly pornographic “Fuck, ah fuck, oh god fuck!” that instantly ratcheted up the intensity of his friends’ climaxes. An astonishing volume of semen spurted from all directions, splattering and sticking over nearly every exposed inch of their captains’ skin. Most had the decency to avoid their hair as best they could, but a few errant ribbons made their way there anyway. 

Finally, it ended. The team gave them space. Holster sat up gingerly, grimacing, trying to carefully wipe his eyes enough to open them, but of course there was jizz on his hands, too, and he had to wait until Bitty rushed over with a pile of towels for them both. “I’m so sorry, honey, we gotta get you boys to the showers.”

“You sound more grossed out than either of us,” Holster teased.

“Bro, I have a second skin of nut right now,” Ransom observed incredulously. 

Nursey spoke up on his way to the showers, “I think I read somewhere that semen is actually good for your skin.”

Holster snorted and said, “Ransy’s skin’s already flawless, he didn’t need your chill fluid for that, Nurse.”

“I don’t know, maybe this will prevent another stress breakout,” Ransom mused.

“Oh you do have that exam coming up, don’t you?”

“I’m already behind my study schedule.”

“Maybe you do need jizz on your face if you’re already stressing.” Holster stood and offered Ransom a hand. “But let’s get this round washed off first,” and he winked and led Ransom to the showers.

**Author's Note:**

> I reserved the chapter function in _A Captain's Atonement_ because I have actually had unexpected Zimbits thoughts/feels that sprung from it which I'm going to pursue further. And it's already in the works! Currently editing the follow-up chapter to Jack's turn in the *cough*hot seat*cough*. But till then, I couldn't resist putting my beloved Ransom and Holster through the ringer! Sequels for Bitty and Dex both will follow this, though no set timeline for when I'll post those. 
> 
> I've also...had other thoughts that could fall under the purposefully broad and vague "Strange, Smutty Traditions" concept, so I'll probably be adding at least a few relatively unrelated smutty shenanigans to this series. Who even knows! I simply follow my id where it leads me.


End file.
